Bang Bang Lyrics

(feat. Franke Belles)

[Intro: Fes Taylor]
Yeah, When the shots go off
I don't hear nobody talking shit then
Alright, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

[Fes Taylor:]
I said I been in the game, Remember me from King Just
Ask who running S.I., Niggas think of us
Since Summer Jam, Shit we bout to hit Japan
Flight 10304, Holla at me when you land
A couple grams, Got shows, A couple grand
Couple schemes, Couple scams, No couples holding hands
Married to the game, Miami getting a tan
Hammer really jammed, Gangsta, Really am
My hood Killa Hill streets, Name speak for itself
Cause when the shots rain nigga it's bad for your health
Yeah I got brain from your bitch back of the Stealth
When I bomb fly like an airplane, Wrapped it in wealth
G-5 glock, Plastic'll melt when we burn out
Tell a nigga fasten his belt and bring his shirt out
While niggas doing push-ups, I was giving hook-ups
So the only weight I touch is getting tucked up nigga

[Hook: Frankie Bells]
I ain't never ran from a motherfucker
Be damned if a motherfucker ever talked tough around me
I'm a damage a motherfucker
Cock hammers at motherfuckers ever try to stop me
I've been pitch'n long enough, Nows my time to shine
Everybody how knows me know I be on my grind
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired so I
Gonna let these checks talk before my gat spark
It's my time to shine

[Fes Taylor:]
Flip the beat, I ain't in to talking shit
I let the pistol speak like Pistol Pete
My Top Gun niggas let the missile seek
I might watch while I sit in the Jeep
I'm on some Don shit, You on some Nikki Bond snitch
Everybody Frank Lucas but won't harm shit
You won't harm shit, I fire arm grip
And I deodorant rappers under the arm pits
Like trying to calm pits
I'm off the leash, My convicts no conscience
We'll leave a nigga dead on your lawn bitch
True story, Niggas better read the papers
You caught with weed, Do police favors nigga
Axle Foley, Cop badge snatching your Rolley
Judge I don't know what happened to homey
In like two months flat, I'll be back with my Co-D's
My wolves pump crack, Blunt wrap in a O.Z

[Hook]

[Fes Taylor:]
My swaggers crazy, Clowns try to treat me like
Bags of hazey, Niggas try to blaze me
Jag right to the corner store, I'm that lazy
And bag up, Everything gone by day three
You artists's a waste of a beat
You in too deep like J. Reid, It's much safer to creep
How you choke in the city you from, I'm from the city of Gods
Where bullets go through your kidneys and lungs
I'm a fly nigga, Still stay pretty in the slums
Bubble gum sole on the blue and white Air Ones
Fitted hat low, Stunt'n slow, Riding gear one
From the rotten apple don't compare it to a pair or plum
Long as your bitch hair done then the nails is done
I stunt her on town, Drive her around
Now even the haters admire my style
The twenty sixes on the tires is wild

[Hook]